THE ENNUNMENT BOOK 2 CANTO 1
A Chapel in Comargash See
Year 103,420 had begun--
We oft just say ’420 here on Nya, (Pronounce Ña)
Our planet, turning round our golden sun,
Our Dyo, our star of glory and éclat.
Nya has a single kingdom we call Ung,
Embracing continents named Eb and Ub,
With isles and archipelagos far flung.
Mecníta city is the nave and hub
Of all the lands and seas, the mounts and vales,
The forests and the plains, the broad frontier,
The cities and the harbors, roads and rails
Throughout the longitudes and latitudes that steer
Our vehicles and vessels to their ports.
A city of 100,000,000 ’tis,
And in its very heart, as court of courts,
In year ’394, the House of Ung,
Whose thousand monarchs free had lived and died,
Became, as I have elsewhere writ and sung,
The House of Vríkshaya's devoted bride.
The Vríkshayas had come to Nya from Mli,
Our planet’s only populated moon.
Millennia they’d ruled beyond the sea,
As mistresses of midnight and of noon,
As ladies of the heavens and the earth.
Queen Údi did annex their kingdom though
In year ’390, when I proved my worth
In this great enterprise. I made it go.
Then Ajinblámbia, Mli’s prodigy,
Made bold instead to fascinate the Queen.
Her husband and Prime Minister, yes, me,
She drove from Údi’s bed, from out the scene
Of majesty and royalty enlarged
By my own leadership, for she cared nought
For my deserts. Instead she rudely barged
Into the palace, stole my wife, and sought
To rid herself of me once and forever.
She made herself the King and then decreed
That, given a new sex, I never, never
Appear in public save in nunnish weed,
In habit of black cashmere to the floor,
With coif and barbe of starched batiste of white.
Forever I’d be sealed behind the door
Of convents inexpugnably locked tight.
Then as a sign of triumph over me,
She bade that at their wedding I preside.
In Ung just nuns the sacraments o’ersee.
Back to Defdéfa Convent then I'd ride.
Thereafter I advanced among nuns’ ranks,
With Olezcónia’s protective love.
Her I do give my praises and my thanks.
She was my hand and I became her glove.
When she retired, I took her place and name,
As Abbess Olezcónia the Second,
The highest nun, whose privilege and fame
Are everywhere acknowledged, widely reckoned
Both first and foremost in our lands and isles.
I then took our religion to the moon
And Ub and Ungonésia. Many trials
I underwent in jungle, glade and dune.
Eight convents now I held within my hands
Sambákang, Armalíssa. Qábjang, Vrandz
Defdéfa, Tantakóram, Carvanílli.
Despite herself, our gorgeous lady King
Was much delighted with the deeds I’d done.
She ordered Óbscont now the bells to ring
And give me splendor to outvie the Sun.
Obeying, Ánsculard spared no expense
To publish articles to honor me.
Exquísite illustrations of events
That marked my progress to our Sacred See.
Both stately paintings and photography
On colorful, illuminated pages
Accompanied the fine biography
That told my life in all its changing stages.
Our cinemas projected films in color,
Dramatic presentations without equal.
They made our ancient tragedies seem duller.
Still never would I have foreseen the sequel
To all this fanfare and publicity,
To all this hoopla and hullabaloo.
Our realm embraced renewed pudicity.
Our convents swelling throngs came flocking to.
Within a year a million nuns enrolled.
We tested them, selecting just the cream.
Just girls of genius we let join our fold,
But still they came in an unbroken stream
With scholarships provided by the King.
We had two millions soon, then three, then four.
New convents we like pearls upon a string
Did thread, but there were always more and more.
As girls took vows of nunhood, often they
Took posts in government and education.
I fondly could anticipate the day
When they exclusively would rule the nation.
The Vríkshaya enacted a new law
In year ’425, decreeing nuns
Had the prerogative to rule in awe
All other persons, all unwimpled ones.
So with five million nuns, I ran the realm
On Nya and Mli. We dominated all.
But Ajinblámbia still turned the helm,
And I must hasten to her beck and call.
She gave the orders. I transmitted them
Unto our populous sorority,
Unto the brilliant jewel, the lustrous gem
Set in our signet of authority.
Thus in our galaxy, which we call Ti,
It came to pass our planet was the first
Whose wide dominions and unending sea
A nunnish catechism fain rehearsed.
Let other planets boast of lords and heroes
Who fight till death to raid and rout each other.
Our holy college gives such robbers zeroes.
Here chastity and modesty are mother
To all who would succeed in their endeavor.
Nýátics now observe docility. (Pronounce nigh-attics)
From war and bloodshed we’ve recoiled forever.
We practise meekness and humility.
The metamorphosis whereby, transformed
From husband of the Queen to nun supreme,
Our centuried religion I reformed
Was magic, marvel, miracle and dream.
Perhaps the Vríkshaya with keenest glee
By focusing the gaze of all the world
Upon the habit that appareled me
Would fitly demonstrate how she had girled
The Queen’s Prime Minister and wed the Queen,
Proclaiming she would rule the realm as King.
However that may be, each morn and e’en
Each page of Óbscont did my praises sing.
A thousand convents rose like tulips sprouting
Or calla lilies in their stoles of white.
They bloomed and burgeoned till no country outing
Could hap without a convent in its sight.
There was no governess, no mayoress, no dame
Of business or affairs, no president,
Ambassadress or ministress of fame
Unless she’d been in convents resident,
Had taken vows of faith and loyalty,
And sworn her abbess e’er would be obeyed,
Myself, the handmaid of high royalty,
The creature that the Vríkshaya had made.
The Vríkshaya was quite agreeable
When I described a convent I would build
To be supreme. ’Twas unforeseeable
With such enthusiasm she’d be filled
That full five thousand acres she would grant
In the Comárgash district, to the north
Of Éldor district. So I might there plant
The heaven tree whose branches reaching forth
Would canopy our planet and our moon.
For sure ’twas it were hardly meet that I
Stay in a simple nunnery when soon
Majestic walls and spires might fill the sky,
To make the convent almost like the palace,
To make a sacred annex to the throne,
A holy place, where murder, mischief, malice
Had not a time or place to call their own.
Comárgash See the convent would be called.
A hundred chapels, nunneries and fanes
With marble would be turreted and walled.
Inside, a checkerboard of beech-lined lanes
And avenues of oak would weave a web
Connecting all. Fine statues, noble fountains
And venerable columns, gracing Eb,
Would stand before the silhouette of mountains
A range of peaks right in the royal city.
’Twould be an altar by the heavens chanceled,
A dome whose lofty height would make you giddy.
Our canon and capitulars prescribe
That every work and act be done by nuns.
We may not hire folk of the laic tribe,
All labor is performed by holy ones.
But we possessed sophisticated cranes
That lifted tons when buttons were depressed.
And we had fellers clearing bosks for lanes
That supple lasses operated best.
The younger nuns did varnish hardwood floors.
Some painted murals on the plastered walls.
While others mounted windows and hung doors.
Still others spread fine carpets in the halls.
The first small convent rose with lightning speed.
The others duly followed one by one.
A full ten years or more the nuns would need
Ere they could say Comárgash See was done.
’Twas nonetheless that I began my stay
Inside the sacred precincts of the See,
And Ánsculard of Óbscont on that day
Was in attendance, interviewing me.
The first five hundred ladies of the veil
Had also taken residence within.
Those numbers soon would swell beyond all tale,
As cloisters started letting sisters in.
A special dispensation was required
For Ánsculard’s admission to the grounds.
This was a thing our lady King desired,
That he behold our sights and hark our sounds.
When he had toured Comárgash See and seen
The wonders we were working, Óbscont printed
A gorgeous book, obliging Údi Queen,
A book with a medallion freshly minted
Affixed to the front cover as a token,
A sign of reverence and admiration,
For all the years and centuries unbroken
Our order had existed in the nation.
What Ánsculard did not reveal was that
A statute we observe requires each guest
To wear a wimple rather than a hat
And don a habit so as to suggest
A sisterly demeanor, nunnish air.
Elsewise the guest might frighten everyone.
Alternatively we might just prepare
A curtained litter so that he might shun
The glimpses and the gazes of our bevy.
A litter with dear Ánsculard inside
Was very awkward, singularly heavy,
For he was very tall, exceeding wide.
He was reluctant to do on a wimple
And step into a habit, while I too
Did treasure my uniqueness clear and simple.
I would no other do as I did do.
So he rode in a hearse with curtains drawn,
Where he could peep and nobody would know,
For all would bend their heads, nor look upon
The solemn limousine as it did go
Along the lanes and driveways of our place.
He did do on a neckscarf and a cape,
In case a nun should hap to glimpse his face,
She’d see the cloth his visage that did drape,
Concluding one of our sodality
Presided the cortege that we'd provided
To lend a semblance of reality.
In spite of all, our Ánsculard was sighted,
But not identified. So he must ride
Unto the mortuary ere alighting.
Once there, he did betake himself inside
Lest he be witnessed in another sighting.
Some novices had followed the procession.
They stepped into the mortuary too,
Enquiring who it was whose last decession
In cars of black was wept as it was due.
The funeral director saw the nuns,
Bade Ánsculard that instant hide inside
A coffin, close its lid. The wimpled ones
Thus could not see what personage had ‘died’.
The ladies of the cloth with the director,
Named Órbaco, struck up a conversation.
’Twas rare that nuns from our retreatful sector
Were seen abroad ere vowing their vocation.
They chatted debonairly on and on,
Nor tactfully could Órbaco be done
With these young postulants who’d come upon
Him unawares, till that the clock struck one.
Six hours did Ánsculard lie still and stiff
Inside his box with frankincense and myrrh
Both redolent about. Sometimes, a whiff
Did drug his wits and set his mind astir.
At 2 AM, to use the English tongue,
Our Ánsculard did walk along a road
Not distant from the Avenue of Ung.
This was a dark and lonely lane he strode,
And thus he stumbled. In a pond he fell.
The pond was paved with walls of grouted tiles,
Nor could he clamber out. ’Twas like a well,
And no one was about for many miles.
Only with morning did a rescue squad
Hoist up his bulk and set him on the ground.
They found it very funny, balmy, odd,
But of the mishap Óbscont made no sound.
Of course I little wist of what had happed
The midnight that our Ánsculard got wet,
For I had been asleep, had soundly napped.
But soon an invitation did I get
To visit him at Rúpsnoir Press for tea.
He told me the whole story. He was jolly.
He was not angry. He just smiled at me.
He merely chuckled at this minor folly.
Yet I could not help wondering how they--
The postulants--the mortuary towards
Walked from Comárgash See, quite far away,
As if they weren’t the tenants of locked wards,
And how it was that merrily they’d chattered
When they had vows of silence to observe.
The canon of Comárgash See they’d shattered.
What was the punishment they did deserve?
To Ánsculard I didn’t say a word.
I knew he’d counsel me to let it go.
He’d say that it was silly and absurd,
But not a matter causing pain or woe.
An inquiry, an inquest I empaneled
To find out who the postulants had been
That midnight when dear Ánsculard was channeled
In chilly water to his very chin.
I found that there’d been nine: Avinzolét,
Rogáfni. Didrimáda, Sharvolé,
Aquíqui, Randolína, Urmilét,
Peshándi and Jibóci. It was they (pronounce Jibóki)
With mouths all full of syllables who'd tripped
So blithely in pursuit of that long hearse
And gaily in the mortuary skipped,
A scene I’d certain never they’d rehearse.
I had the heavy coffin hauled into
A sanctum in the chapel we had built.
I had each novice do as he did do
By lying hours inside, to banish guilt,
While all eight others danced around the box,
Both jabbering and chattering with glee
Till they were tired. I opened then the locks,
Each of the lasses finally set free.
Nine nights the punishment continued till
Each of the nine had lain inside the casket.
I thought this fair. The Vríkshaya thought ill.
So ’twas one morn a letter in a basket
Was brought me at Comárgash See to read.
Our lady King was wroth. She’d punish me
For these excessive strictures, this daft deed.
In public, she would bend me o’er her knee.
I did appeal her ruling in the abbey,
Insisting I confront the royal
By Vínja, Bárti, Mléchi, Úsha, Dhábbi,
And Údi be examined, by all means,
But with complete decorum and address,
As if she were a judge and they a jury.
Let them produce a finding and express
My penalty, without revenge or fury.
King Ajinblámbia gave her assent.
The queenly jurors duly were convoked,
The calligraphic invitations sent.
The goddesses above they all invoked
In swearing to tell nothing but the truth.
They came in gowns of velvet and brocade.
In my black habit I looked quite uncouth.
Their hairdos were superb. Their gold and jade
Outshone my rosary’s waxed wooden beads.
To them it was a party, a fine game,
Interrogating me about my deeds.
They giggled merrily to hear my name.
The nine young nuns were summoned to the court
To testify on what I’d done those nights.
Their testimony made a full report.
Thank goodness they weren’t bitter for my slights!
So it turned out that our most gracious King
Reversed herself, deciding it exceeded
The norms she would herself for such a thing
Maintain. It looked as if I well had pleaded.
Instead of spanking me in public view,
Which would demolish the publicity
That Óbscont had been mounting with ado,
She ruled that it would be felicity
To carry out the punishment indoors,
In private, where just she and those six royals
And those nine nuns would see me on all fours,
My skirts raised o’er my head to serve as toils.
My petticoats of white were all exposed
And I was bound at ankle and at wrist.
A hassock, tipped and rolled, was juxtaposed.
Upon it I was made to fall and list.
The ladies were ecstatic. This was fun.
The postulants were grinning with delight.
A paddle made of brass, a largish one,
Our lady King impalmed. Keen was my fright.
I shrilled and shrieked. I whimpered and I whined.
My weeping and my wailing woke the dead.
But Ajinblámbia, most often quite refined,
Frenetically did paddle cherry-red
My spherical derrière beneath the flounce
Of my white petticoat so sheer that through
The fabric you could see my buttocks bounce
As pink balloons in gentle breezes do.
Sixteen young ladies, all so beautiful,
Laughed heartily to see me soundly spanked,
Somehow they reasoned they were dutiful
To see me disciplined, while I just thanked
The goddesses when finally she stopped.
I stood when they untied me, for to sit
Were quite impossible, but then I flopped
Upon a long divan I scarce could quit,
For it were painful both to flex and rise.
So ended this routine and ritual.
I said within, as I cast down my eyes,
"I hope this doesn't wax habitual."
The royal Vríkshaya was much delighted
The spanking'd made the ladies thus to rollick.
She was both titillated and excited
On seeing Queens and novices so frolic.
She designated then an anniversary
To be observed to celebrate the day,
A lavish banquet, nothing cursory,
Followed by the enactment of a play,
A drama to retell the tale entire
That started with the time when in the hearse
Our Ánsculard, refusing nuns' attire,
Outside the mortuary did immerse
His bulk, for having hidden from the nuns--
And ended on a hassock with my paddling,
Skirts o'er my head, while Queens and holy ones
Just wondered what it was that had been addling
The brain inside my cranium those days.
Our lady King commissioned a fine painting,
A classic work, three meters squared. My gaze
Thereon embarrassed me and had me fainting.
She hung it in a chamber lined with cedar,
And had her people furnish tables, chairs
And trolleys for herself, the banquet's leader,
And fifteen guests she'd welcome at the stairs
Each year for quite as many as would pass
In regnal decades she should wield the rod.
The annual observance would outclass
The duller rites through which we oft did plod.
The drama's text was writ in purple letters
On stiff white pages edged in costly gold.
I was depicted bound in satin fetters
In illustrations colorful and bold
In plates between the dialogue and script,
With onionskin to cover and protect.
A hundred copies were composed and shipped.
This certainly was not what I'd expect
To happen to an abbess of five million,
But this is Ung, a topsy-turvy nation,
Where common sense and logic, riding pillion,
Stray helplessly in daft peregrination,
Caprice and chance alone tugging the reins.
Some books would go as gifts, the others stay
Within the room where we would hear the strains
Of harps and viols to orchestrate the play.
Eventually however, all returned
Unto its normal courses and routines.
Our choirs did resound. Our censers burned.
We celebrated pageantry's rich scenes.
Mecnita.com is all about panties and bras.
Mecnita.com is the perfect venue for panties and bras.
Mecnita.com is the mother of all websites for panties and bras.
For a lovely selection of panties and bras, see PANTILYNX.